Unending Night
by Crystal Oblivion Phantasy
Summary: Before everything went drastically wrong, there was someone else in Erik's life... Nikole Viollet, a Gypsy girl with captivatingly magical eyes, unjustly considered a freak in the traveling fair, like he once was. ALW mostly & GL based, EOW. Review PLZ!
1. Nikole

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of "Phantom"--the musical, lyrics, books, etc.--except this (once again) sketchy plotline, my characters, and these words.**

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_**UNENDING NIGHT**_

**CHAPTER 1: Nikole**

_"You're never alone… No one is alone…" were her last words._

It was a muggy, sultry July day in 1858… and the words of the late Cecelia Viollet echoed in the ears of the daughter she left behind. She sat by herself in the covered wagon, the surprisingly cool Paris breeze whipping through her long, dark, straight hair and brushing against her naturally tan skin. It was the day before the eighth year marking her mother's death, and the hours were closing in on that twelfth stroke of midnight so intensely. It was the most unlucky "lucky seven" she could think of… July 7th. And to think, in one week, she'd probably have the luckiest "unlucky thirteen" of all: her birthday--July 13th--her thirteenth birthday, in fact. Still, even that fact couldn't comfort her. Her eyes were closed, trying to imagine her mother's face one more time. It seemed to be harder to recognize and remember with each passing day…

"Nikole?"

She snapped back to the present and she opened her eyelids, slowly revealing the most stunning, misty, silver-gray eyes. Though on the outside the colour was strong and deep, sternly fixed in a piercing gaze, if you looked deeper, deep enough, on the inside, there was a melancholy awe swirling beneath the surface. She finally looked up to see a man about triple her age kneeling before her. It was Bouchard, the double-jointed wonder, more famously known as "The Rubber Man."

"Nikole, dear, are you all right?" Bouchard asked. She didn't respond, but instead, just stared at him with her dashing silver eyes. Nikole Viollet was not a social person, especially ever since her mother died. He understood her--one of the few who could. He looked at her warmly and took her hands in his. He knew what was wrong.

"Your mother?" She nodded, slowly. He thought, then stood up, helping Nikole up, as well. "Let's go join the others. Heaven knows, it's hot enough outside, let alone in this helluva wagon." Bouchard jumped down and out of the wagon, helping Nikole out, and led the way. "We arrived in the city a little over two hours ago. Everyone's finally finished setting up, the tents are all ready." He looked at her and saw that she didn't really seem to care.

Nikole had spent her whole life in a covered wagon and a tent, traveling from city to city, every week, performing… or being exploited. The Gypsy fair had become her existence, the very thing that kept her alive…

…And she _hated_ it. Not for the sole fact that she had to perform for people--no, she _loved_ to perform. She could sing and dance and act for her audiences with no trouble and great pleasure. No--what she hated was the reason _for_ her audiences' presence… the reason she was a _part_ of the fair… the reason she was _exploited_… _her eyes_.

Her eyes were two of a kind. Through her emotions, with every feeling she felt, Nikole's eyes could change colours. And it was because of this that made her the one thing she despised being considered most… a freak. An onlooker would simply say Nikole was a part of a freak show--one of them--and the audiences _loved_ to make fun of "_freaks_."

Nikole's mother Cecelia was just a sweet, normal Gypsy girl who lived and loved to dance for the crowds and befriended her fellow performers. She fell in love at a fairly young age, about sixteen, and married quickly. She stayed with the fair and her husband traveled alongside her. Sadly, he was killed a year later by a drunken spectator, who threatened to kidnap his beloved. But fortunately, a few months later, in July of 1845, Cecelia gave birth to Nikole. However, it was bittersweet, considering Nikole was born into the world of the strange and mysterious; or rather, the hated and abhorred. She had no choice. And especially when Lucius Jouvet discovered the spectacularly unique peculiarity of her eyes, she was caught in the webs of his sideshow.

Cecelia attempted to fight for her daughter, but it was no use. Not only did Jouvet never take no for an answer, but Cecelia's health started rapidly declining, and six days before Nikole's fifth birthday, she passed away. And Jouvet took over complete custody of Nikole.

Since then, it had been eight years of exploitation, torment, harassment, torture… and abuse. Lucius Jouvet wasn't exactly what you would call a "gentle-man." In fact, he was a purely twisted, sadistic bastard. Nikole had once made an attempt to run away while performing in Bordeaux, when she was seven. Jouvet, a good eighteen years older, found out, stopped her in her tracks, dragged her horridly into his tent by her beautiful, dark hair, lashed her to a post, and proceeded in scourging her with his prized cat o' nine tails, for her punishment and _his_ pleasure. An hour later, he threw her into "her fellow freaks'" tent, leaving them to take care of her bruised, bloody, and lacerated body.

From then on, whenever Nikole would make the smallest mistake or try to make one of her many escape attempts, he would virtually beat the image of it into her mind until little drops of crimson could be seen scattered on the ground. Although, as the years went on and Nikole grew older and more mature, Jouvet's mind began ticking. He didn't just crave her pain and suffering anymore… he began to get cravings of _lust_. Her pure, sweet, youthful essence was just what he wanted… and with Jouvet as the barker and considerable manager of the fair, Nikole had nowhere to go…

Finally reaching their destination, Bouchard gentlemanly let Nikole enter the tent ahead of him. There sat the freaks: Guinevere, the beautiful soothsayer, Byron, the Herculean man-of-strength, Lisette, the scintillating fire lady, Madame Millicent, the unbelievable bearded lady, and Claude, the amazing sword-swallower. They all looked up and heaved a sigh of relief as Nikole, the mood-eyed girl of many talents, trudged through the opening.

"She's fine, perfectly unharmed. Thank God for that," Bouchard announced to the others. As Nikole took a seat, everyone came to her comfort.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?" Millicent asked her.

"I'm fine," Nikole replied. Byron went to the far side of the tent and returned with a cup of water, kneeling as he handed it to her.

"Drink this, you look flushed. God knows, you shouldn't be dehydrated in this weather," he said. She smiled slightly and took a sip. As she lowered the cup, though, so did her gaze and her smile. Everyone noticed the brilliance, yet the dullness in the colour of her eyes, still that misty gray hue, their spirits falling along with hers. Guinevere stood up and took Bouchard to the side.

"Cecelia?" she asked.

"Yeah." They both turned to look at Nikole.

"Oh, the poor girl…" she said with the same sadness reflected in Nikole's eyes. "Bouchard, we have to get her out of here, she's not meant to be here. We made our decision; Nikole didn't have that choice… She deserves better." Guinevere started to cry. "More." Bouchard put a comforting arm around her.

"I know, Guin… I know." They all stood still, until they all suddenly felt a bitter chill in the air sweep through them and the tent flap whipped open. They all turned to see a dark figure at the entrance.

"Hello, my freaks."

It was Lucius Jouvet.

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A/N: A big change from the psycho-parody, huh? LOL. Eh… I was in a mood for a change, hehe. Gotta know--worth continuing? Although, I'll most likely continue anyhow, I'd just like some feedback. Reviews are very good friends… that I DESPERATELY need more of, LOL! Please review:) !

PS: Don't worry--for those of you who DO like this Phic--Erik's coming next chapter!

Cheers.


	2. Genius

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of "Phantom"--the musical, lyrics, books, etc.--except this (once again) sketchy plotline, my characters, and these words.**

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_**UNENDING NIGHT**_

**CHAPTER 2: Genius**

They all moved into a huddled group, all concealing Nikole, with the men heading at the front. Jouvet stepped in, moving into the lantern light, revealing a man in his early thirties. And actually, he wasn't quite so bad looking, although his filthy and disgusting appearance definitely diminished any compliment worth giving to such a man. He had a dirty, greasy complexion and dark, sinister eyes… fixed straight onto where Nikole was.

"What's all the commotion? I only came in 'ere to tell youse all that a huge queue's formin'. All youse better be prepared… 'specially, Mam'selle Viollet." Nikole peaked her head out from behind Millicent to glance at Jouvet. "You got a lovely queue awaitin' _you_. Don't wanna keep 'em waitin'. _So get a move on_!" and left in a flash. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief.

"That bastard, Jouvet. He should be burned at the stake," Lisette stated in a thick French accent, checking up on Nikole.

"I don't think that would help, Lisette," Claude explained, standing protectively by her side. "Lucifer dwells in fire."

Bouchard stepped forward. "Come on, everyone, I think we should prep. Let's go." They all started leaving the tent, Bouchard staying behind with Guinevere to walk with Nikole.

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A dark figure crouched over the rim of the lake and stared at the reflection of the white mask in the water. He splashed at it, scattering the image into a million ripples, and walked away. God, how he wanted to get out of that place, that _city_. Heaven--if there was one, Erik imagined--knows, why he stayed there. The confining walls of the caverns continually echoed the silence of his loneliness. All he had to do was pick up his things and leave, if he wanted to… but still, he didn't; he hadn't. Something held him there, some mystical connection, some mysterious reason… His thoughts continued to wind.

He _wanted_ to experience more of his life outside of Paris, not spend it forever cooped up in his cold, underground lair, writing music no one else would ever hear. He wanted to see more of the world beyond…

He'd seen it before… well, some of it. He'd been to Persia--what a place _that_ was! Harem women practically throwing themselves at men's feet, no matter how they looked…

_That was some fun there._ But even at that, he desired more in his life. Even in his unhappy past, as a child, Erik had seen more of the world from the confinement of a cage. He'd been to Charenton, Nice, Lourdes, Chevalier, Cannes, Tours… but one place stuck out in his mind… Calais. Although it had been the setting for some of the most tragic experiences in his life, Erik knew it for the scenic views, the beautiful countryside, and his birthplace--the home he loved.

Now, he'd lived in Paris most of his life, since being rescued from the traveling fair by the caring Madame Giry, when he was seven. He had even moved back after his rendezvous in Persia, and still didn't know why. But since then, all he'd known were the quiet cavern walls, the still lake underneath the world-renowned Opera Populaire, and the occasional trip through the streets of Paris. He settled that there was some strange, mysterious air to it… after all, Paris _was_ considered the "city of love."

_At least, he hoped it was…_

He touched the mask that covered the right side of his face and grimaced at himself.

_A curse. That's what this mask is… a curse._ A curse that drove his mother away from him to give him to the fair, a curse that made fear and disgust breed in people's eyes… a curse that shunned him from a world of love and into a world of loneliness.

Despite this, though, in living in solitude, Erik had mastered many things: the art of mysticism and magic from his friend Nadir, the Persian, architecture with the help of the wonderful Charles Garnier (who assisted in the construction of the opera house), and most of all, _music_. Purely self-taught at everything with very little help from books, he could play any instrument at a whim and could sing as if he'd taken lessons all his life. Madame Giry was right in calling him a "genius."

She thought that, as she looked at him, standing with his back turned towards her. She stepped off the gondola and onto land, walking towards Erik. He began getting dressed to go out, putting on his coat and checking his pocket watch.

"Erik, where are you going?"

His attention sharpened. "Out," he told her, without a further word.

"Erik, you cannot go out," she said sternly, yet worriedly.

"You are not my guardian, Madame. I shall go wherever I please." His harshness felt to her as though he had slapped her straight across her cheek. He closed his watch and pocketed it, starting to leave.

"Back to the brothels, then, Monsieur Lévesque? I am sure the little whores will be pleased to see you," her sarcastic nip bit the air. "You are such a _generous_ master, from what I hear..."

Erik had stopped in place. "What I do is my personal business, Madame, what you do is yours--in which, I suggest you return to your charming daughter. After all, she is only two-years-old," he snapped back.

She lowered her head, silently. "So you _are_ returning to the whorehouses."

There was a hint of disapproval and grief in her tone, and Erik could tell. He bit his lip and cursed himself. After all the woman had done for him, the least he wanted to do was upset her. He sighed and turned to face her.

"No. I just have to get out of here; it's just so stifling, I'm going out of my mind. Besides, I told you I've given up the brothels… With those women, you find out how truly alone you really are." Madame Giry looked up and Erik sighed. "I am sorry, Antoinette. I did not mean to distress or offend you."

"No, I'm sorry, Erik. You are twenty-three; you can take care of yourself. You are old enough to make your own decisions… live your life however you want. I have no right to pry," she said, shaking her head. "It's like you said, I have a daughter to take care of." Erik still felt guilty, despite what she said. "It's just… I worry for you. I don't want to see you hurt again, in any way… I hope you can understand."

Erik nodded. "I do. And I thank you for your concern." And with this, he turned to a curtain and opened it, revealing a mirror. He slid it over and stepped through, then took a final glance of Madame Antoinette Giry before closing the curtain and sliding the mirror back over. Shortly after, Madame Giry left the caverns and did as Erik suggested, to take care of little Meg.

The walls were dark and the tunnel itself was comfortably cool, Erik's shoes clacking on the stone as he walked. As he drew nearer to the entrance of the outside world, he felt the humidity thicken in the air and stick to his skin--the little he had exposed.

He finally reached the gate door and exited the opera house. Despite the heat, Erik drew his cape closer around him and tipped his fedora to shadow the right side of this masked facade from his surroundings. Before proceeding down the street, he peered his eyes, piercing and paranoid, around cautiously. He wandered aimlessly, not in search of any place in particular; up the Rue Scribe and back around again.

Just then, he stopped and looked up to observe the place his spontaneous feet led him to.

"Well, 'ello there, monsieur. Come 'round for a nightcap, 'ave ya?" Erik just stared and heaved a sigh.

The whorehouse.

_Such reliable feet to lead me subconsciously to the brothel_, he thought. He looked the woman up and down. She had lush red lips and matching red hair, wide hips, and a full bosom, enhanced by the corset she wore--and was barely twenty. He recognized her; he'd had a few "favours" performed by her. Morgana. _Blast my wretchedness._

"No, mademoiselle. Not tonight," he replied.

"Then what 'ave you come 'ere for?" Erik begged to contemplate such thoughts himself, but was interrupted in the midst of them by the sound of faint music…

A familiar music…

Fair music.

"What is that?" Erik asked. Morgana sighed dejectedly.

"That damn traveling fair's back. 'Ere for the week. Bloody freakin' noisy lot, they are. Whisked away most of our regulars," she explained. "Not to mention their wives."

Erik became spellbound, as the sideshow music usually rendered anyone within distance, and was mysteriously drawn to it, as if it were magnetically capturing his natural ear. He turned towards the sounds, away from Morgana.

"Oh, no. Not you, too. Bus'ness's been 'ell for us all night," she proclaimed, recapturing Erik's attention. In an odd, not quite understanding way, he felt pity for her. He turned back, pulled two coins from his pocket, and held them out to her.

"For your assistance." But Morgana put her hand up.

"Save it... for our _next_ exchange," she said with a sly curl on her lips. Erik nodded and pocketed his money. He bowed to her, she curtsied (appearing to be as ladylike as she could be), and he turned to go off in the direction of the coercing melody dissolving into the night.

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As if from a dream, like coming out of a thick, whisping fog, everything came into range--the sights, the sounds...

...the terrifying anticipation.

And then a voice rang out, piercing through the clearing view, amplified by the mockingly jovial concoction of notes sounding in the breeze...

"Step right up! Come see amazing sights from far and wide! Be amazed, be astounded! You won't believe your eyes!" Jouvet bellowed his coaxing, persuasive advertisement, drawing spectators and onlookers from all around. "Welcome...

"...to the freakshow!"

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A/N: Wow. I suck at life, LMAO! I am SOOO sorry it took this long to update. Long story short--my life's been a bitch for the past (however long it's been) since my last (FIRST) chapter. For all my lovlies, I know--it's about damn time I get around to this (so you can all enjoy more chappies with Sexy Erik and Sweet Nikole!)! Okay, thank you for all the lovely reviews! I'm so happy people liked the change! Chappy three WILL be up soon--I promise! Love the lovely Erik--it equals good news for Nikole, but bad news for Jouvet! Muah-hah-hah! Don't worry--you shall soon see, XP! Cliffhangers! Nikole and Erik will return once more!

(And just MAYBE I'll get back to the psycho-parody that I STILL have yet to finish, too, . !)

Cheers, lovelies.

Crystal Phantasy


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